


will you be the better half of me? (the Planet of Love remix)

by the_Orange_one



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: #Remix, #Spies & Secret Agents, #bro i am j-, #i am just straight up Vibing here, #rated T for blood? and. mild descriptions of gore??, #very overt siken references bc of course, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26047438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_Orange_one/pseuds/the_Orange_one
Summary: Remix of ricciardos' "will you be the better half of me?" from her spy au(Pierre's POV)
Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	will you be the better half of me? (the Planet of Love remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [will you be the better half of me?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23838682) by [ricciardos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricciardos/pseuds/ricciardos). 



> PLEASE read the original fic first i don’t think this will make much sense without it ksjfjsk
> 
> anyway shoutout to sadie for being an excellent writer & also for letting me write-slash-post this in the first place. i can’t believe you got me to care THIS MUCH about pierre/charles in only 3600 words you absolute legend.

Pierre has never been in the field before.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Pierre,” Charles says, and it’s enough to stop Pierre’s hands from shaking but it’s not enough to quiet the rushing of the thoughts in his mind.

Charles has been making him promises for years, now. Since they were young and stupid, running around the schoolyard at recess and skinning their knees.

“You’re always gonna be my best friend,” Charles had said, and Pierre hadn’t really believed him, not quite. But he’d really, really wanted to.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” says Charles, and Pierre nods, because he’s always trusted him, half truths and all.

“I know,” he says, because he wants it to be the truth.

Charles has always wanted to die for love, and Pierre has always trusted him with his life.

It’s honestly a wonder they’re both still here.

They reach the train car with twenty minutes to spare.

“Do you always cut it this close?” Pierre asks.

Charles’ answering grin slices through the murk, something violent and unbalanced, at odds with the rest of his presentation. “Today is actually a good day.”

Nineteen minutes left and they can’t find the bomb.  _ They can’t find it. _ Charles begins to pace the carriage like a caged tiger looking for places it could be hidden.

Eighteen minutes, seventeen, and still nothing.

Charles rips off a seat cover and at first Pierre thinks he’s lost it, but then he sees what Charles was looking for.

A twisted capillary and a wire end cap, blue like electrical tape.

They lose precious seconds searching for the main switch, and it’s Pierre who eventually finds the hub, a tangle of wires behind the route map on the east wall.

“Pierre,” breathes Charles, desperate and reverent. 

He doesn’t think Charles knows he’s spoken. 

Pierre knows in his heart that there’s less than ten minutes left. Charles has been counting the minutes ever since they entered the tunnels.

Pierre needed ten minutes. That’s what they all agreed upon before they left the safe, battered walls of MI6. He needed ten minutes, but he hasn’t got ten minutes.

He gets his head down and shines his pen light into the box.

After a moment to refamiliarize himself with which colors are which breakers, he starts instructing Charles on where to place his hands.

“Hold this one. The green one,” he says, and Charles’ fingers slide in deftly next to his.

“Four minutes,” whispers Charles the next time he’s given an instruction.

Pierre lets out a shaky breath and wipes sweat up into his fringe. They’re not even halfway done.

“Cut here,” he murmurs, and Charles obeys.

The only thing Pierre can think as he pulls components apart with his bare fingers is that they’re not going to die here. They won’t die here in this tunnel, miles from home, away from the sunlight and the sweet spring and all the things he loves.

Well. Most of the things he loves. Charles is right here next to him, isn’t he?

Three minutes, and Pierre yanks out a chunk of wiring he’s done messing with. It’s dangerous but he can’t afford for them to die because he wants to keep this neat.

Two minutes, and Charles shifts their bodies closer together even though Pierre doesn’t need his hands any longer.

Ninety seconds, and his head spins with exertion, but.

“This is the last one,” he says, sagging into Charles.

Charles’ body curves around his, effortlessly taking his weight. Charles is wearing a bespoke suit and Pierre is a sweaty mess. He can hear both their hearts pounding. He lifts the wire cutters to make the final stroke, and he takes a breath to say something he shouldn’t but--

“Both of you, step away from the box or I’ll shoot your brains out.”

Charles tenses under him as the unfamiliar voice addresses them from the mouth of the door to the carriage.

Pierre stops breathing. His hands freeze. They were so close. Fuck, they were so close.

“Lower your weapon, now, or we all die,” Charles intones calmly. He meets Pierre’s gaze and Pierre, god help them, cannot understand what he’s trying to tell him.

The man explains his twisted logic, his intention to die, and Pierre steels himself to cut the wire anyway. There have to be less than sixty seconds left now. There’s no time to second-guess himself.

“You’re crazy.” Charles has shifted onto the balls of his feet. Ready to the last.

The man sneers. “I am but a man,” he says, and Pierre knows this is his last chance. The man has a gun but Pierre has the power to save thousands, and there are less than twenty seconds left.

Charles turns to look at him and Pierre understands what he was trying to say too late.

He cuts the wire.

Charles draws his Walther and leaps straight at the man with the gun.

A gun goes off.

When Pierre turns to look, the other man’s brains are painted across the windows and Charles is crumpled on the ground.

“No. No, no, no,” he wails. It’s involuntary, like most things are for him when it comes to Charles. There’s so much blood. “Non,” he gasps, and turns Charles onto his back, cradling him in his lap.

They’ve been here before, Charles looking up at him with eyes half-lidded, Pierre’s heart in his throat. But it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Pierre blinks back tears and memories of daisy fields and finds the source of the bleeding.

His stomach.

Pierre’s own stomach roils in response and it’s all he can do to strip off his vest and press down with all his weight. He turns his comms back on and calls for backup. 

_ Man down, man down. _

Charles’ eyes flutter open and Pierre is practically sobbing now.

“Don’t do this to me,” he pleads. “Come on, Charles.”

Charles’ breathing is wet but for a different reason than Pierre’s. It’s enough to start his hands shaking again.

“You’re such an idiot,” he says. “You took that bullet for me, why?”

Charles coughs and Pierre was right. There’s too much red in it.

“I love you,” Charles says with blood in his mouth, and Pierre’s heart drops out of his chest.

He feels like he’s breaking in two.

_ Oh, chéri _ , Pierre thinks as his tears mix with Charles’ blood speckled over both their wrists. Charles’ eyes are closed and Pierre doesn’t know if he’ll ever see them open again.  _ Why would you tell me this now? _

Charles has always gotten what he wanted. Always needing to have the last word. It makes sense that he’d have it his way at the end.

Pierre screams hoarsely into the comms again, checking on the medevac, and presses the heel of his hand into Charles’ gut.

“Stay, stay, stay,” he chants, and memorizes the fall of Charles’ eyelashes against his cheeks over again. “Please. Please.”

Whatever happens next he doesn’t remember any of it.

Charles wakes up in the hospital and Pierre isn’t there to see it.

As soon as he’s on his lunch break, though, he’s in the medical wing posthaste.

“Why?” is the first thing he demands of Charles once he’s set foot through the door to his room. Charles looks up from his cot, and it’s the same Charles he’s always known. No angel’s wings, no bullet holes.

“Because it’s true,” Charles says. His voice is rough and good and real.

Pierre falls into the chair next to his bed and weeps into the sheets until it’s time for him to go back to his desk. Charles pets his hair and murmurs quiet things into the hush, promises he’s been making for years, that Pierre has never all the way believed.

“You love me,” Pierre whispers later, in the cold air of the morning on his balcony. Charles is sitting on the railing dangling his feet over the edge. Pierre knows that if he asks him to stop Charles will just get more intentional with it.

“I do,” Charles says frankly. “Is that really so much of a surprise?”

Pierre blinks. “I don’t think so,” he responds. “Do you know that I love you?”

“Of course,” Charles says, and Pierre laces their fingers against the cool metal of the wrought iron handrail.

A week ago, Charles promised to stop taking bullets for Pierre and he’d just laughed in Charles’ face.

“No more promises,” he’d mumbled against Charles’ lips. “Unless you mean to actually keep them.”

Now, watching the dew burn off the rooftops of the apartment blocks around them, Pierre asks for one more promise anyway.

“Whenever you come home, promise it’ll be to me,” he says.

“I promise,” Charles whispers, and kisses him, too.


End file.
